12 Days of Christmas 2(21b)014
by That Kid With the Long Coat
Summary: It's twelve days 'til Christmas, and Sherlock and John have a few things on their mind. A little dark, and not-so-cheery. We'll see what happens.
1. Day 1

Doing a Christmas thing again this year - 12 Days instead of 24 this time, because uni. Set after s3, because reasons. So... spoilers possibly? Hope you enjoy this along with your holiday!

Thank!

* * *

**12 Days of Christmas**

Chapter 1

_12 December, 2014_

* * *

Put on the kettle. Wait for the water to boil. Tap his fingers distractedly. Reach for a mug, the tea, the infuser. Kettle boils. Switch it off, pour. Spoon in the tea, dip in the infuser. Wait for it to steep. Tap his fingers some more. Carefully clean the infuser, place in sink. Find the sugar, pour in one, two tea spoons. Stir. Place spoon in sink. Drink. Make a face. Tastes better than he would have originally thought.

Stop. Phone ringing. Mobile. Do they even have a landline anymore? Unimportant, delete the thought immediately. Sudden burst of excitement. A case? Plausible. Certainly probable.

Pick up his mug, take a sip, walk to the sitting room. Pick up phone, glance at the screen. Mum.

Thumb hovers over the 'Reject' button. Pause.

"_Dammit_," he murmurs under his breath before answering. "Hello?"

_"Oh, Sherlock!" _Grimace.

"Yes, hello." Leave the tea abandoned on his work table. Pace. "What is it you've been calling me about?"

_"Well if you would ever answer me, you would know." _Sigh.

_"We're doing Christmas this year, and you're expected to come."_

Oh, **hell**.

"What's the occasion? Has Mycroft gone and gotten _him_self shot this year?" His mother reprimanded him. Must have been too much glee in his voice at the thought.

_"I just thought it we could have a nice Christmas. One where _no one_'s been shot."_

Ah. Talking about the Magnussen debacle, is she?

Sherlock paused, considering.

"Will Mycroft be there?"

_"_Of course_ Mycroft will be there."_

Damn it all.

"When?"

"I was hoping you and your brother would come the day before Christmas Eve and stay until the day after Christmas."

A grimace. "Fine." It's not like he has much of a choice.

He hangs up before his mother can protest.

* * *

By the time John gets home from work, Sherlock is still pacing, cold tea still sitting in the table where he left it.

John stares at Sherlock tiredly for a moment, trying to figure out the source of the other man's agitation.

"Why do you look so sour?" John asks from the doorway, frowning. "Did Mycroft stop by?"

Sherlock starts at the breach of silence, turns. "Something like that."

John nods, but continues standing there. "Anything wrong?"

"Oh, um. No." Sherlock waves his hand as if waving away a particularly irritating gnat. "Just a minor inconvenience." A pause. "…Thank you."

Another nod from John.

Sherlock resumes his pacing, only to realize John is still lingering just out of the sitting room, as if he wants to say something. Sherlock stops. "…All right?"

John considers, his expression bleak. "All right." He then heads up the stairs, footsteps heavy and tired.

Sherlock watches until all of John is out of sight.


	2. Day 2

A/N: Unfortunately, for the past couple of days my internet decided to hurl itself into the void and has been nonexistent. For those of you that care - my apologies.

* * *

**12 Days of Christmas**

Chapter 2

_13 December, 2014_

* * *

Horns honking, pedestrians chatting, a whole city bustling. Smell laundry detergent, something baking from below – _nutmeg?_

Sit up, _God_, does he ache this morning. Must have slept funny. Stretch. Better. Sherlock ruffles a hand through his hair as he stands, grabs his dressing gown from the hook on the back of his door, pulls it on. Pad into kitchen, switch on the kettle. Wait. Rub face as he wanders to the sitting room-

Wait.

John?

Sherlock stops in his tracks as all of the heaviness leaves his limbs. He must be staring, but… well. John hasn't lingered in the sitting room for months, at least. And now here he is, sitting in his chair reading the morning paper.

Hair damp, tired eyes, subtle frown. Jeans, jumper, bare feet. Hm.

"Morning," John says without looking up. Smells of coffee.

"Morning," Sherlock replies, itching the back of his head. He's still staring, and he's rather sure John has noticed by now. Kettle boils. Sherlock tears himself away to switch it off. Grab a mug, note the dirty one in the sink. Coffee. John. Pull down two. Two teas: earl grey and Assam. Pour the water, wait for it to steep. Two sugars in his, spot of milk in John's. Grab both mugs, walk back to the sitting room. Stifle a lingering yawn. Hand John the earl grey. He takes it wordlessly. Sherlock sits down in his chair, takes a sip, drinks in the silence, the situation. This is… comfortable.

When his mug is empty, Sherlock decides to make another. It's a quiet day, and for once it would be rather nice if it stayed that way.

"Another cuppa?" he asks John as he stands, and John shrugs, offers him his own mug. Sherlock takes them both and begins the process all over again.

As he walks into the sitting room a second time, something catches Sherlock's eye. It seems rather… clean. There is a significant lack of dust on the bookshelves, around the windows, and the papers that usually litter the coffee table seem to have straightened themselves. Mrs Hudson.

John watches curiously as Sherlock scans the room, and his hand lingers in the air for an extra second when Sherlock hands him his tea.

"Wonder what they have on the telly…" John muses. Sherlock shrugs, sits in his chair, huddles around his mug. John offers a smirk, and pulls himself up. Sherlock tries not to stare as John clicks on the telly, then turns to start a fire. Sherlock hums appreciatively and sips his tea.

They spend the rest of the day watching old Christmas movies in silence.

* * *

"Well, this was fun, but it's getting late," John finally says with a tired sigh. Sherlock contorts himself to get a view of the microwave in the kitchen. It's going on two a.m.

"Yes…" he hums, smirking at the man across from him, maintaining eye contact as John stands and turns to the kitchen, presumably to put his mug in the sink. When he walks back out, John murmurs 'night', and walks by Sherlock's chair, resting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder before padding softly away.

Sherlock notes that John's gait isn't as tired and heavy as it has been.

Upstairs, John lingers in the doorway of his bedroom for a moment, finger lingering on the light switch. He sighs, turns on the light, and starts pulling of layers. He's tired, so tired, and because of more than just the time. As his shirt hits the floor, he unbuttons his jeans, steps out of them, and tries to decide whether or not he should just crawl into bed now or look for something other than pants to sleep in. Deciding on the former, John flicks off the light, and sits on the edge of his bed.

He sits in silent darkness for a long moment, thoughts churning.

He switches on the lamp on his bedside table, pulls open the drawer, and picks up a small something from within, turning it over in his fingers. The gold band shines in the menial light.


	3. Day 3

_A/N: Oh, god, you have no idea how hard this was to write. My constant thought was "this is so irrational; it's such a disproportionate response". I had to keep reminding myself that, hey, that's the point. Anyways. I'm behind. Sorry._

* * *

**12 Days of Christmas**

Chapter 3

_14 December, 2014_

* * *

"All I'm saying is that maybe it should be time to try and let go," Sherlock says tentatively, clutching the bags in his arms. John is climbing the stairs in front of him, trying to ignore everything that Sherlock is saying, but John needs to hear it. "John, Mary-"

John stops for half a step, turning his head back to shoot the other man a venomous glare. "Don't."

Sherlock feels his mouth click shut, but he forces it open. "It's been months, John, she obviously isn't coming back. And I think we both know that all of this isn't even about her, not really."

"Sherlock, I said _don't_."

It's the look on John's face, the obvious pain in his eyes that makes Sherlock stop. Obediently, he follows John up the rest of the stairs, into the kitchen, and, after clearing a clear space on the table, sets down his bags. The two put groceries away in silence. Milk, bread, various canned foods, a few miscellaneous things Sherlock needed for a variety of experiments he plans to conduct in the next week, jam. There is some tinsel and lights in there too for Mrs Hudson, even though John and Sherlock both know that she intends to use it in their flat. When they're done, and everything is put away, John nearly flees from the kitchen. Sherlock begins arranging his various Bunsen burners and test tubes, hoping to calm his thoughts with an experiment involving fluoroantimonic acid.

He's just started to look for his goggles – he put them _somewhere, dammit _– when he hears a series of bangs, curses, and finally rushed, angry footsteps coming towards him.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock, currently searching under the table for the aforementioned goggles, jumps, banging his head on the underside of the table. Huffing out an expletive or two, he stands, confused. "_Yes?_"

"Where is it?" John's face is full of fury, and his whole body is bristling and rigid.

Sherlock blinks. "Where is what? You'll certainly need to be more specific."

"You know what. I know you know that I kept it – you always know. Now what have you done with it?"

"John, I honestly don't know what you're talking about." Though, that is a lie. Sherlock knows very well what John is talking about at this point. However, he can only speculate as to how it went missing.

"The ring." John is very still now, making cold, direct eye contact with Sherlock, who maintains it.

"John, I assure you that I have never touched your ring–"

"Don't you _dare_ lie about this! You're the only one who knows I still have it! I _know _you're ecstatic that my marriage went down in flames- you always did hate it when my attention was turned away from you. And just thirty minutes ago you were telling me that I should 'let it go', now _where the hell is it?_"

A weary sigh leaves Sherlock's lips as he leverages himself against the kitchen table. "John, when would I have the time? I've been with you all morning – don't say I could have snuck in during the night, you wake up if a pin falls on the floor in Mrs Hudson's flat." John's mouth immediately closes. Sherlock can see tiny gears turning in John's mind, he can see John formulating a scathing response, that John is full capable of hurting him, hurting him badly, and braces himself.

But he doesn't. John simply shoots him a withering, warning look, and storms out of the flat. Sherlock winces when the door slams closed downstairs. A few minutes pass before he lowers himself into a chair, head in his hands. He's suddenly very tired.


	4. Day 4

_A/N: I am NOT doing John's depression much justice, and I apologise for that. I guess since Sherlock's cured it canonically before via cases and danger, I'm writing it in? Or maybe my depression itself isn't very severe, so I'm projecting myself. Whatever the case, I'll try harder in future._

* * *

**12 Days of Christmas**

Chapter 4

_15 December, 2014_

* * *

"George."

From the darkness erupts a stifled groan that, frankly, doesn't sound nearly as alarmed as it should.

"It's 'Greg', Sherlock, you _tit_," Lestrade grumbles, pulling his blankets over his head. "I'm not even going to ask how you got in this time." He cracks an eye at his intruder. "What could you possibly want?"

Sherlock has started pacing, pausing every now and then to look out of Greg's tiny bedroom window, as aloof as ever. "I need a case. Now," the other man adds, turning to face Lestrade, hands clasped behind his back.

"And this couldn't have waited another-" Greg picks up his alarm clock in order to see the time properly, "-five more hours – Sherlock, it's two in the bloody morning! Some of us actually need to sleep, you know."

"Yes, I am aware of the necessity." Sherlock continues to stand there insistently.

God dammit. "Fine, fine." With a groan, Lestrade sits up, turning on his bedside lamp. "Well, since you have ever-so-graciously woken me up, I might as well see what I have-" He stops speaking mid-eye rub. In the improved lighting, Sherlock looks… sad? Anxious? Bothered, obviously. Is there even really a word for this sort of expression? Greg scratches his stubble, deciding on "sad." The last time he saw Sherlock Holmes "sad" was at John's wedding, and what a day that whole affair was. "Bothered" would be after Sherlock had gone and gotten himself shot. Neither of these are good things. "Everything all right?"

The sigh Sherlock lets out is utterly too weary. "I just need out of the flat," he offers, but nothing more.

"John?"

"Hasn't improved," Sherlock answers, understanding the question behind the single word.

"I see," Greg says slowly, pulling himself out of bed. Sherlock jumps as a warm hand claps his shoulder. "Let's have a look at my case files, shall we?"

* * *

"Boring," Sherlock drones, tossing yet another folder to the side. It's nearly five, at this point, and Lestrade is on his third coffee of the day.

"Alright," he mumbles, digging through the box of files on his desk. "How about this one? It's a murder."

Sherlock snatches it hopefully, only to let it fall out of his hand after a few seconds.

Lestrade sighs. "What is it this time?"

"Too easy. An unfortunate accident, that. Killed himself like the idiot he was. Amazing what a bit of alcohol does to the body."

Lestrade blinks. "Alright… I'll have to look into that one to have it settled; but thank you?"

"S'fine," Sherlock shrugs, this time digging through the box himself. Greg lets him, leaning back in his chair. After some situating, he finds a comfortable enough position and closes his eyes.

* * *

John opens his eyes to morning sunlight and regret.

"_Shit_," he grumbles as he climbs out of bed, reflecting on his behavior yesterday afternoon. He should apologise; his reaction to a missing band of gold was uncalled for – even if it did hold sentimental value. He'll wait until later. Sherlock is probably still asleep. The bastard has a habit of sleeping in if he sleeps at all, and John can't hear any sort of noise from below. Yes, later would do.

About midway through his morning routine, John realizes that Sherlock is missing. Well, not missing, per say, but absent from the flat. Bedroom: empty, the bed doesn't even look slept in; sitting room: empty; kitchen: in need of a tidy, but otherwise void of a certain consulting detective.

"Hm," John hums, intrigued, but unconcerned. Sherlock isn't necessarily known for his predictability, and especially not for staying in one place for too long. _Probably on a case,_ John thinks, with only a hint of bitterness. Sherlock never takes him on cases anymore. Really, that's probably why he's been so depressed as of late. Or was his depression the cause for his being left behind? Who knows anymore. Everything just kind of snowballed. It's all such a blur.

_I need to talk to you, so let me know when you aren't busy._

John isn't necessarily satisfied with that, but it fit the purpose. He can't possibly put everything going through his head in a single text, but at the same time John doesn't want to keep it so concise that Sherlock thinks he's still cross. No, this is probably the best he's going to get. He hits send after some hesitation, then placed his phone in his pocket. Off to work then.

* * *

**[No new messages]**

John's brow furrows as he takes a long swig of his coffee. It's lukewarm, and the paper around the rim is getting a little too damp to function properly, coning out as John grips the cup. With a grimace, he tosses it into the waste bin.

_Interesting case then?_

* * *

**[No new messages]**

Is Sherlock ignoring him?

Probably. John would probably ignore himself for a while too.

* * *

John fights the urge to check his mobile for the third time during one of his exams. Boring old man, rambles on and on about all of his lumps and spots and loose teeth. Oh, how he aches, and something about his corns. John tries to keep a politely interested look on his face.

_A good mystery always makes dealing with the general public more interesting._

* * *

John is rather right – a good mystery does make dealing with the general public more interesting. Especially when Schrodinger's cat climbs out of its box.

Apparently, a woman rang in two weeks ago to report her missing cat, one that she later claimed may or may not exist. It was just intriguing enough to grant her a visit from Sherlock Holmes.

"So, you don't know if there actually ever was a cat?"

The woman, Belinda, or whatever her name was, shakes her head. "No, sir."

Sherlock cocks his head, giving her a questioning look.

"Well," she begins, "it all started a couple of months ago. I noticed things getting moved about. Little things out of place. I would put them back, and the next morning they were right back where they were. Food went missing. Funny smells started hanging about. After a while, I assumed it was a cat. So I started feeding it- left some food out on the back stoop. It's been gone by morning every day since. Except for that one day, when I rang the police…" the woman trails off wistfully.

Sherlock's eyes snap back to the woman's face, having looked about the entirety of the room while she had been speaking. "And tell me, why did you phone the police?"

"In truth, Mr Holmes, I didn't know what else to do. I felt I lost a part of myself when that cat went missing. I might have panicked a bit."

"I see. Well, thank you for your time." Sherlock smiles, then dismisses himself. As he walks along the street, he checks his mobile, pulling up John's texts. He reads them quickly, then promptly ignores them. He texts Lestrade instead.

_Solved the cat mystery. Woman has dissociative personality disorder. Recently saw a therapist who prescribed her medication for her severe depression. Not cured, but helped. The DPD, I mean._

_SH_

He only had to wait a moment.

**_What?_**

_The woman has DPD, which causes multiple personalities. One personality moves things, eats, lives a completely different life, while another puts things back, and comes up with an explanation for things being out of place. Lonely, depressed woman like that sums it all up to a little furry companion that she can care for. A different personality thinks it's funny to empty out the cat food and leave the empty bowl sit for the woman to find. It's gone undiagnosed, but it's being inadvertently treated by her depression medication. Got it all from her calender and the bottle next to the sink._

_SH_

Damn. He can't quite pull off a brilliant reveal via text. Oh well.

Lestrade never does reply back, but that's all right. Sherlock can imagine his reaction well enough.

_Can I have another case?_

_SH_

* * *

**[No new messages]**

Okay, now John is getting worried. It is well after dark, and he hasn't heard a word from Sherlock. Not a single word. Five years ago, this wouldn't have surprised him, but now… all sorts of unpleasant thoughts are barraging his brain. Cases have proved dangerous in the past, why should it be any different now?

He decides to call someone.

_"Hello?"_

"Greg, hi, it's John- have you heard from Sherlock?"

_"You mean he isn't at Baker Street?"_

A cold trickle runs down John's spine. "No, I haven't seen him all day."

_"That's because he spent the majority of it here at the Yard. I haven't seen him for a few hours yet, though. I thought he would be home by now, to be frank."_

"Is he on a case?"

_"Several, actually. He's been on every minor case I've gotten in the past month. He's blown through about half of them in a few hours. Less work I'll have to do-"_

"Yes, but do you have any idea where he is now?"

_"Like I said mate, I haven't seen him for a few hours. He came in for one last case and left. Said he'd be finished with it in sixty-two minutes, tops. I figured he'd be home after that."_

_'Sixty-two minutes?' _"When was that?"

_"'Bout six o'clock."_

John glances at the time. It's nearly half-ten. _Shit._

"Where?"

Greg must have heard the note of desperation in John's voice, buried in the inflection that made the single word a question; he answered very quickly. _"Church Street. At the antiques shop."_

* * *

Sherlock had finished the business at the antiques shop (miscalculation on an employee's part, not a robbery), and was walking towards Lisson Grove when he noticed someone following him. That had been hours ago. Now, he's pretty sure that he's lying somewhere by Paddington Basin, but it's honestly hard to tell. His head had taken a blow, and he's disoriented. His mind is fuzzy; he can't quite remember how he got here.

Sitting up was probably a bad idea. Now it feels as if two hammers are banging away at his temples, and the world is spinning. Opening his eyes was an even worse idea. The lights send pain shooting through his eyes and into the deep recesses of his brain, despite the fact that he was conveniently hidden in a shadowed area of the docks. At least he can confirm his location – he's practically on top of Paddington Basin. How he got here and why still remains a mystery.

Slowly, he stands, taking inventory. Physically, all right, except for his head, and a small gash on his cheekbone. He always seems to be getting those. Clothes intact, nothing stolen, still has his coat. As he puts his fingers into his pockets, he discovers something. A newspaper clipping?

He pulls it out to find the words "Did you miss me?" scratched onto an old newspaper photo. Suddenly his chill isn't from the cold.


	5. Day 5

_A/N: Let it be noted that I am not a doctor. So…. Yeah. Also, I live in the States. I have never been to London. I have Google Maps. Don't hurt me Londoners and English-people; I am but a simple fic-writer. Though I have recently discovered that I can get time estimates for locations. Yes! My only regret is that I discovered this at the end of this chapter. Also, yes, John called off work. I think that's it._

* * *

**12 Days of Christmas**

Chapter 5

_16 December, 2014_

* * *

_16 December, 7:15 a.m._

John must have searched the entirety of London before he allowed himself to return to Baker Street in the hopes that maybe, _maybe_, Sherlock would be there. John almost ran up the seventeen steps in his haste, only to meet disappointment. His friend was still nowhere to be found.

He begins pacing the floor, thoughts racing, gut wrenching. His brain manages to get through three different scenarios of varying horror when a door closes quietly from below. John stops. Heavy footsteps are making their way upstairs. After an agonizing minute, a familiar form appears from around the corner.

"Sherlock, _Jesus_, where the hell have you been?" he exclaims, crossing the distance between them in three long steps. There's dried blood on Sherlock's cheek, in his hair, the side of his head. He looks pale, shaken, and tired. "What the hell _happened?_"

A shake of the head is Sherlock's only response.

"_Sherlock._"

A pause. "_Got mugged_," he finally mumbles.

John's brow furrows intensely at that. "Why the hell didn't you call me – text – anything? I could have come and gotten you- just look at you! You probably have a concussion. Are you nauseous?"

He is, but for an entirely different reason. He tells John that no, he is not.

Sherlock watches in mild amazement as John's whole body goes from bristling and angry, to soft and gentle. "Still," John says, making careful eye contact, "you should have called."

Sherlock can only nod in response. John holds his gaze for a moment before sighing.

"Come on. Sit down, I'll patch you up." He places the back of his hand to Sherlock's forehead. "Jesus, you look like you've run all over London." A corner of Sherlock's lip quirks. He won't tell John why. Not tonight.

Obediently, Sherlock walks over to the couch and sits down.

* * *

"Sherlock," John murmurs, carefully dabbing an alcohol-soaked cotton ball against Sherlock's cheek (they didn't have any clean cloths).

"Mm?" Sherlock hums, eyes closed as John's right hand holds his jaw steady. It's warm. Feels good. Comforting.

"About the other day. When I shouted at you." John feels Sherlock tense, sees the other man's left eye open slightly. "I'm not good at this sort of stuff… but I'm sorry. That was wrong of me."

Sherlock shrugs, subconsciously leans into John's hand. John's thumb runs across his cheek.

"I mean it, Sherlock. I don't care what kind of excuses are there. That was not okay. Alright? I'm sorry."

"It's fine, John," mumbles, completely content with the current situation. John's knee is pressed against his outer thigh, thumb still caressing Sherlock's face. John opens his mouth to protest, but is silenced by a quick look from Sherlock.

John lets out a small huff through his nose. "Here, let me see your head," he murmurs after a moment. Sherlock obliges, but winces as John feels around the sizeable gash in his scalp. "Sorry," John immediately apologises, then mumbles under his breath. "Damn, you'll need stitches for this. Up you get – you okay? I need better lighting."

Yes, he is okay, if not a little dizzy. Sherlock attributes that to the possible concussion he received. He holds an arm out briefly to steady himself, but before he can let it drop back to his side, John grabs his wrist.

"Come on," John says, leading Sherlock to the kitchen. He leaves Sherlock there momentarily in order to clear off the kitchen table, making sure any and all potentially dangerous substances are well out of the way. After wiping the table down with alcohol (using a recently disinfected dish towel), he gestures Sherlock to come over and sit down.

The feel of needle and thread pulling through his skin is as uncomfortable as it is familiar.

* * *

_16 December, 8:02 p.m._

Sherlock is warm. Very warm, and only vaguely uncomfortable. He seems to be sitting up, but also leaning against something soft, and very familiar-smelling. He must have fallen asleep.

In an instant, it all comes rushing back to him. Getting hit, waking up near water, coming home, John tending to him, being sat down on the couch, tugging John down to sit next to him, resting his head on John's shoulder and finally falling asleep.

Sherlock opens his eyes to see John looking fondly at him.

"Greg called," he says, and Sherlock squints. "Says he's going to find whoever did this to you. Also, he has another case. Has the whole Yard stumped. I told him he'd have to wait for you."

All tiredness floods out of Sherlock's body. "Where?" He's suddenly buzzing, and the throbbing in his head dulls. He can barely feel his pulse against the stitches in his scalp.

John smirks. "Wandsworth Common Station. Something about a train."

Sherlock's face contorts into a frown. "A train?"

"Apparently a man appeared out of nowhere and walked onto the tracks in front of an oncoming train. No one knows who he is, no ID, nothing of value at all on him. Just his mobile."

Sherlock doesn't want to form any conclusions as of yet, but so far the biggest mystery is a matter of identity. The motive seems perfectly clear. But, perhaps he'll be surprised. It happens on occasion. He rises to his feet, intending to leave as soon as possible.

"Sherlock." John's voice has a way of stopping him in his tracks. "I'm coming with you this time."

Sherlock grins. "Wouldn't do to have you stay here."


	6. Day 6 (Content Warning)

_A/N: God, I am so behind. Why do I do this to myself. That's not a question; I know what's wrong with me._

I suppose I should warn you about the sex and possible psychological horror and abuse that shows up in this chapter. Rating has changed accordingly, because obvious reasons. Anyways.

* * *

**12 Days of Christmas**

Chapter 6

_17 December, 2014_

* * *

_17 December, 1:20 a.m._

John has been poking at his food for approximately ten minutes, Sherlock notices.

"You should eat," he murmurs, gesturing towards John's plate with a nod.

John's brow lifts a worrying degree. "So should you."

Sherlock pouts stubbornly. "Don't eat during a case."

"Oh, so it's a case now?" John asks, brow finding a way to rise further. "Didn't seem that way while you were standing over that poor man's body."

Sherlock's lip curls slightly. Damn, he's been caught. "It was too early to tell," he retorts, aloof.

"Oh," John stays again, flicking a bit of food with his fork. "What changed your mind?" After a chagrined look, he takes a bite.

"I've a hunch," he says without consideration.

"A hunch?" John asks, incredulous.

"Yes, John, a hunch." If Sherlock sounds at all exasperated, it's because he is.

"All right, all right."

They sit in silence. When John has taken a few more bites, they leave.

* * *

The smell of disinfectant makes John's nose scrunch up in distaste. It's awfully strong today, but he doesn't mind. Much. He's more focused on keeping up with Sherlock's pace, eyes transfixed on the other man's coat as it whips this way and that. John is transfixed for a moment, watching, before Sherlock swoops into the morgue, on a mission. John follows, and nods in greeting towards Molly, who is rolling out the last of four bodies. By the way the sheets are draped over them, they seem to be all female. His thought is confirmed as Molly starts revealing their faces, one by one, starting with the first. Without hesitation, Sherlock starts scrunitising every inch of her. She is plain, with mousy brown hair. She's small, and John can't help but notice that her nose turns up a bit at the end. After a moment, Sherlock steps back, no longer interested. Molly uncovers the second, revealing an attractive (can he say that about a corpse?) woman with long, curly dark hair, uncannily reminiscent of Sherlock. The other man seems more interested in this body than the last, eyeing her over from head to foot, as if taking her measurements. John feels himself stiffen, and glances at Molly, who is straightening her blouse. Odd. John hadn't noticed her wearing it on the way in.

Onto the next, who is taller, but a little stouter than the previous two. Her hair is equally dark and curly as the second woman's, but thicker. John sees Sherlock smirk cruelly before moving on. Molly quickly pulls back the sheet to reveal the final woman, looking under her long lashes at Sherlock before brushing her hair behind her ear. John notes for a moment how pretty she is. Sherlock seems to do the same – he even smiles at her. Something in John's gut stirs.

There's something about the next body that instills in John a feeling of rage and betrayal- and, surprisingly, no small amount of sadness. Frowning, John steps closer, in order to get a better look at her face, but can only register than she is older and shorter than the other dead women, and has dyed blond hair, before Sherlock moves into his field of vision, with his cheekbones, and that coat. Oddly, though, Sherlock seems more interested in Molly than the corpse? Why?

Sherlock and Molly smile at each other before his friend motions for them to leave. Molly follows them. _Why?_

_..._

The thought of Molly coming to the flat with them must have kept John preoccupied – the next thing he knows, he's standing in the stairwell, alone. Laughter floats down from above. Frowning, John goes to investigate.

Sherlock has Molly entrapped in his long arms, hand casually on the small of her back, pulling her closer. He is smiling stupidly; she's giggling. John stands in the doorway, one hand on the handle, and finds himself unable to do anything but look on in shock. He takes in Molly's long, slender legs, her heels, her scandalous dress and tousled hair, before he realizes that this isn't Molly. This woman is taller, hair darker, and her face is all wrong.

"Oh, hello John," the woman says with a hint of an Irish lilt.

"Janine," John replies, throat hoarse.

Janine laughs as Sherlock nuzzles his nose into her neck. "Sherlock!" she reprimands, "What about poor John? The man looks traumatized!"

Traumatised would be the proper word for it. _What is happening?_ John blinks, and Janine seems to get shorter, paler, more gaunt. Her hair is loose and damp, and she is dressed in one of Sherlock's dressing gowns.

"Hamish," John finds himself saying, and he clears his throat. "If you're looking for baby names."

Irene laughs musically at him.

"Come now, John," Sherlock says. "Surely you're not jealous?"

John isn't sure, but… yes. He thinks he is. But it's more than that, than mere jealously. This is betrayal. This is abandonment.

Sherlock and the Woman are leading each other towards Sherlock's bedroom, kissing, touching, laughing at John's discomfort. John feels himself moving forward, against his will.

John finds himself lingering in a doorway again when he's not supposed to, but he can't tear his eyes away from Sherlock's now-naked chest. The other man's pupils are blown as he grabs the hem of Irene's dress and pulls it slowly up her body. She arches into him, her body shifting, changing as more of her bare flesh is revealed.

"I never did love you," she says clearly as the dress falls to the floor.

John staggers back like he's been physically hit. All he wants is to be able to turn away, to run, to close his eyes against the sight of Sherlock standing behind her, planting burning kisses down her shoulders, her back, her neck, lavishing her in affection in a way he never did.

_Mary._

"Why are you doing this?" he asks, and he can feel his voice breaking as they both ignore him. Mary turns her bare body away from him now to undo Sherlock's trousers, slide them down his pale legs. He's hard, painfully so. John swallows in agony.

It doesn't take long before Sherlock is completely naked, with Mary lying on his bed in front of him. John is leaning against the door frame like it's the only thing keeping him upright (it is).

Sherlock lines up, then makes eye contact with John, who is shaking against the door.

"You're such an idiot."

_What?_

"I'll never love you, you know," Sherlock purrs in a sultry, cruel baritone. Mary makes an impatient noise below him. Sherlock responds and slowly pushes inside her, causing her to sigh in relief. "How could I love you?"

_"You're so ordinary."_

_"So plain."_

_"Nothing happens to you."_

_"You're so broken John. How could anyone love you?"_

_"I left you to rot for two years, alone. It would have been better of me if I had just killed you myself."_

_"I should have told you somehow – I could have. But I didn't. Do you know why?"_

_"Because you mean nothing to me. I didn't care if you suffered. It was the work. Always the work."_

_"You mean nothing to me."_

_"I will never love you"_

Sherlock never breaks eye contact with John as Mary writhes beneath his lithe body, her nails digging into his arms in back. John slides just a little further down the wall with every word Sherlock says to him until he is finally sitting on the floor and is able to bury his face in his knees.

_Why._

_Why is this happening?_

_Why?_

John hears Sherlock let out a small chuckle.

"_STOP IT!_" John shouts, emotion bubbling up in his throat. When he opens his eyes, there is nothing but darkness. Everything is silent. It occurs to him that he's sitting in his bed, every muscle stiff. He's panting, chest heaving, and his face is wet. John clenches the sheets with his fist and holds his face in his other hand.

The floor creaks from below. He can imagine Sherlock downstairs, still awake and doing whatever it is he does at this time in the morning. Sherlock's face from his dream lashes out at him from behind his eyes and John winces. The creaking stops at the foot of the stairs. John wonders if he shouted out loud. He sighs, then starts to laugh. He then starts to cry.

_Why is this happening?_

* * *

_A/N: Well holy shit. Merry Christmas?_


End file.
